


If The Green Left The Grass

by withmarkers



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, trade feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-04
Updated: 2012-07-04
Packaged: 2017-11-09 03:40:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/450839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withmarkers/pseuds/withmarkers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Taylor is leaving for New York and Biz is pissy about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If The Green Left The Grass

**Author's Note:**

> For Julia, because when she is sad I am sad and I wanted to help her. Thanks to Azzy for being a pain in my ass. <3

_You’re a dick_ , Biz texts, and then storms around his apartment, fuming. It’s not the most immature thing he’s ever done, but it’s easily the douchiest thing he’s ever done to _Taylor_ , and in some part of him, deep down, the guilt instantly starts gnawing at him.

 

He ignores it, because he’s fucking pissed off, okay? No one ever said he was a saint.

 

He snorts, because yeah, not even maybe.

 

_You okay?_

It’s not from Taylor. It’s from Doaner. The fucking Captain himself.

 

His phone rings a moment later.

 

“Seriously,” Biz snaps when he picks up. “Fuck you and your fucking psychic Captain-ness.”

 

“I take it you’ve heard, then,” Doaner says unnecessarily, but his voice is soft.

 

Biz scowls at nothing. “Why the fuck are you calling me?”

 

Doaner stays silent. Biz hears him take a breath and says, “No, don’t you dare come over.”

 

“I thought you’d want to talk.” Oh, Doaner. As unruffleable as always.

 

“I don’t,” Biz says tightly. He wants to hurl his phone across the room, watch it shatter, and then stomp on it and set fire to all the pieces. He wants to never speak to Taylor Pyatt and his fucking doe eyes of doom ever again. He wants to go on vacation and get stupidly drunk and stay drunk for a week, and fuck hot girls and come back and work out until his muscles burn and –

 

“Just don’t kill your phone, alright?” Doaner’s voice is heavy and regretful, and then he hangs up.

 

Biz ignores him.

 

It hits the wall with a spectacular sounding crash.

 

-

 

“I tried calling,” Taylor says. His hands are stuffed in the pockets of his jeans, the spikes of his hair deflated. He’s got half-hooded eyes and he looks so very tired that it makes Biz ache all over.

 

“Yeah, well. Maybe I was busy,” he replies, not very politely, turning away. But he doesn’t close the door.

 

Taylor doesn’t follow. He takes one step forward, hedges, “Mind if I come in?” and waits, because right, he couldn’t be an asshole if he tried.

 

Except this time.

 

“Whatever.” Biz waves a hand. “You might as well; you’re halfway inside anyway.”

 

He can feel Taylor’s hurt expression following him, lingering heavily between his shoulder blades as he walks back to the kitchen where he was sweeping up the pieces of a plate that he’d smashed after the demise of his cell.

 

The door clicks shut.

 

“You’re pissed.”

 

Biz grinds his teeth together, sweeping with a fair bit more force than is probably needed. “Yep.”

 

Taylor lets out a long breath. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Biz. I was unrestricted; New York wa-”

 

“Wanted you?” The broom clatters to the floor. “What, and we didn’t?”

 

Fuck, he’s so angry right now he can’t even think straight. Instead of dwelling on what he just blurted out, Biz finds himself fixated by the dark sweep of Taylor’s eyelashes against his cheekbones, the curve of his jaw where his head is tipped down to the floor.

 

“This is starting to sound like a breakup,” he murmurs, and Biz lets out a bitter laugh.

 

“Sort of is.”

 

Taylor’s head snaps up. “That’s not fair.”

 

“What the hell are you still running from, anyway? What’s so awful about Phoenix that you have to fly all the way to New fucking York –”

 

“I’m not running!” Taylor yells suddenly, cheeks flushing red.

 

Biz’s feet take him one step forward. Then two. Then three. Glass crunches under his shoes.

 

Taylor just stares at him, breathing hard.

 

Four. Five.

 

There’s less than a foot of space between them now.

 

“I didn’t,” Biz says, slowly. Carefully. Quietly. “Want. You. To. Go.” He can’t breathe, like a hand’s reached straight into his chest and is squeezing his heart so tightly it’s not even beating, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

 

Taylor’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second. “Wh – What? Why didn’t you say something?”

 

Biz snorts. “Are you kidding? Really?”

 

“Wait, wait.” Taylor’s eyes shut momentarily, then fly open again, dazed. “So you’re saying…”

 

“For fuck’s sake,” Biz mutters. “I’m saying _this_ , you asshole.” And then he wraps his hand around the back of Taylor’s neck, fuzzy with short hair, and drags him in to kiss.

 

Taylor makes a surprised sound against his mouth, but settles almost instantly, melting, fucking _melting_ , pliant, into Biz’s hands like putty. His jaw is rough with stubble, and when his head tips just right, his eyelashes tickle Biz’s cheeks, and it’s so, _so_ good that Biz’s anger subsides into a slow, even boil.

 

“Shit,” Taylor breathes out after a long minute, blinking like he’s half-drunk. “Uh.”

 

Biz steps right back out of his space, letting his hands drop even though they’re still hot and doing some tingly thing from contact with Taylor’s skin. “Right,” he says, entirely too brightly. “Anyway, so.”

 

“Don’t do that,” Taylor tells him, stepping forward. “You don’t get to do that?”

 

Excuse him? “I don’t _get_ to do that?” Biz counters. “I’m pretty sure this is my goddamn apartment.”

 

“Yes, but. Okay, no.” Taylor scratches his chin, flushing as he does it. “So you’re…”

 

Oh god, they’re having this conversation.

 

Biz shrugs. “Not really.” No, really. He really, really does not want to have this conversation right now. Or ever, actually. “Look, can we just –”

 

“Is this,” and a loose gesture between the two of them, “Like, a _thing_?” Taylor says at the same time, and Biz mutters a curse under his breath.

 

A _thing._ A **_thing_. ** What the fuck is his life, right now?

 

“No, I’m angry at you.” Biz points, for lack of anything better to do, and scowls. “You signed in fucking New York and are moving across the goddamn country and I had to find out through _Doaner._ ”

 

“I thought it was New fucking York,” Taylor says, deadpan, and the f-bomb from his lips absolutely does not make Biz blink or his lips twitch.

 

“Oh, fuck you,” he shoots back, picking up the broom and leaning it against the counter, abandoning it in favour of grabbing a beer from the fridge. He needs more alcohol for this. Eventually he ends up glancing back at Taylor, who’s absently rubbing at his mouth with his fingertips, and it sends a low flare of heat through Biz’s stomach.

 

This would have been so much easier if Taylor had just freaked out and ran away.

 

“No, seriously,” he adds out loud. “Fuck you.”

 

He heads to the living room, flops down on the couch, and really, he shouldn’t be at all surprised when Taylor sits next to him, too close for Biz to ignore him.

 

“So, this conversation…”

 

“Is not happening,” Biz interrupts him. “Very much not happening. We are not having this conversation, Taylor.” There is only so much shit he can do in one day.

 

Taylor makes a humming noise under his breath, and then leans in and noses at Biz’s jaw.

 

Biz barely manages not to jump. “What the ever loving _fuck_ are you doing?”

 

Taylor looks at him through his lashes, and Biz cannot read him. At all. “Not talking.”

 

Fuck. He is well and truly _fucked_ is what he is.


End file.
